


Something Ought to Burn

by cornix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Dogs Everywhere, F/M, Future Fic, I don't know why I'm allowed to write, Past Abuse, Reunions, architecture, honestly so much made up architectural history, i improvised with the governmental structure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornix/pseuds/cornix
Summary: He doesn’t travel North often. In fact, he does so as rarely as he can possibly manage. Not that it’s much of an active choice — there aren’t many reasons for him to go. Not anymore, anyway. Bad things happen when you fall in love with your boss’ fiancée, and even worse things follow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: I have not abandoned To Steel. This is mostly an experiment to challenge myself and hopefully regain some confidence in my writing.  
> I never ever thought I'd write a modern au, so this is very new to me. But it's fun to write, and I hope you enjoy reading it, as well! :)

He doesn’t travel North often. In fact, he does so as rarely as he can possibly manage. Not that it’s much of an active choice — there aren’t many reasons for him to go. Not anymore, anyway. Bad things happen when you fall in love with your boss’ fiancée, and even worse things follow. 

Sandor looks idly out the train window, at how the red-orange-yellow forests turn to moors and back again, how the rain gives way to thick, grey mist, rolling over the landscape like something he wants to be swallowed by. He imagines the cold, wet air on his skin and thinks of his father’s house, perched precariously on a cliff just where the fog would divide and disperse. That house is gone, now, as are everyone who ever lived there. _Except for me_. It doesn’t feel like a victory.

Stranger lies asleep by his feet. Or rather, on top of his feet. There is limited space. Stranger’s the sort of dog that’ll fall asleep anywhere — on the sidewalk outside a corner shop, on the tram with his head in a stranger’s lap, drooling, on top of Sandor on the couch… He’s not the sort of dog you tell off for innocent things. Sandor’s just happy that the big beast is so safe and confident nowadays that he’s comfortable letting his guard down. The first six months out of the shelter, he had to muzzle the dog in public, as much as it pained him. It burns him up to think that somewhere in Westeros, the people that made Stranger lose his trust in humans in the first place walk around freely. But then, the black beast lies snoring contentedly on the floor, and that should be enough.

_”…In a few minutes at Moat Cailin Station. Connecting train to Barrowton at 09.45 will depart from platform 3. Bus 81 to White Harbor at 09.52 will depart from bus terminal 19. The train to…”_

Damn uncomfortable, is taking the train. Back when he worked for the military, he’d be provided with a car, but being a government employee is different. Since Stannis Baratheon became Governor of the Stormlands, new measures have been taken for sustainable development. No more domestic flights, no more rental cars. Instead, all employees have been issued regional public transport cards. Sandor wouldn’t have minded so much if it wasn’t for his face, and the way people stare. Then there’s how tram seats are just not made for broad, 6’8ft tall people. And then there’s Stranger, and how Sandor had to take him to extra obedience classes because he refused to go on the tram, only obedience wasn’t the problem, and it took months of patience to get the dog to stay calm while crammed in a tight space with strangers.

Yeah, Sandor minds quite a bit, now that he thinks about it.

The disembodied speaker voice announces that there’ll be a ten minute stop at Moat Cailin. _Thank fuck,_ Sandor thinks, and gently scratches Stranger behind the ear until he wakes up. The dog looks up at him, still half-asleep, and wags his tail slowly.

”Come here, boy, let’s go outside.”

The air is still crisp with morning, and the cold Northern winds blow straight through Sandor’s jacket. He cups his hand around his cigarette to light it, and takes a long drag. His legs are stiff and his back aches slightly from sitting so uncomfortably for hours. He takes a look around. The platform is mostly empty save for a pair of teenaged girls who are staring openly at him. He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and buttons up his jacket.

”Come on, Stranger.” He starts walking along the platform, making the most of the stop before he’ll have to get back in his seat. There’s still hours to go before he’s at Winterfell Station.

—

Sansa crosses the Snow Square and enters Porther’s Coffee. They allow Lady inside here, but only because they know Sansa.

”Hi, Jeyne!”

The brown-haired girl behind the counter looks up at Sansa and smiles.

”Sansa! Managed to tear yourself from the drawing table, I see. Why, did you even take a day o— nope, that’s your laptop bag.”

It’s true. Sansa works too much.

”Good to see you too, Jeyne.” She rolls her eyes. ”Bran wanted to meet me for a late lunch, so I thought I’d get here early to work on my pitch.” They’re rebuilding her and Beth’s studio, and she gets sick of working from home.

”Ooh, the student residences? Dean Hornwood might have told me you were getting involved.”

”Hornwood? From Law?”

”Yeah, we keep in touch. I think she’s still hoping I’ll come back.”

”And you will, Jeyne. There’s no hurry.” _You’ve been through enough_.

Jeyne smiles. ”Thanks, Sansa. Tea, then? I’ll come out with some water for Lady, as well.”

Sansa finds a table in the corner, by a window with a view of the inner courtyard. She is grateful that it’s not Porther behind the counter today. He’s a pleasant enough man, but she is not in the mood for his overt flirting today. There was a time when she would seek out that sort of thing, would go to bars with bare shoulders and no credit card. She never left sober, and she rarely left alone. _”We all deal with trauma differently,”_ her therapist had told her. Well.

She opens her laptop just as Jeyne brings her tea and Lady’s water bowl over. Jeyne knows how she likes her tea. Flowery ceylon with some honey and a sprinkle of lemon juice. It’s perfect.

Sansa’s pitch is not.

She’s been working for weeks on the student residences for White Harbor Uni, but she has no idea how to sell it. Sustainable architecture is still new in the North, and her firm WOLF is so far the only one in the region that focuses on the environment. It was a risk, of course, not joining an established firm, but after everything, Sansa needed something that was _hers_. And it is hers, and her partner Beth’s, of course. They’ve had some help, though. Sansa’s professor at Oldtown University, Willas Tyrell, let her intern at his firm in Highgarden, and once she’d graduated, he even outsourced a couple of jobs to her, to help her get started. Willas can afford it. He’ll no doubt help them again if she asks. She won’t. He knows far too much about Sansa’s time in King’s Landing, about what Joffrey did to her. She told Margaery, and what Margaery knows, Willas knows. Sansa is afraid he’s helping her not because he sees her potential, but out of pity.

She has no need for pity.

What she needs is control. She even has her own place, a townhouse modest enough that her late mother would have been concerned. _Why, there isn’t even a proper library!_ Sansa doesn’t mind. She keeps her books in her living room, in the built-in bookcases that are neither Sheraton nor made from satinwood, but built by some unnamed carpenter from good, honest oak and painted a dusty blue. All her siblings still live in Winterfell, and she tried, she did, but she could not stay there and play house when there are empty chairs in the dining hall that no-one dares sit in yet. She visits often. It’s easier, somehow. And she likes living in Winter Town.

Porther has emerged from the kitchens. He smiles and waves at Sansa, but knows better than to disturb her when she’s working. He does have a good smile, though. All broad, honest and safe. Had Sansa been looking to find someone to settle down with, she might have fallen for that smile. But there’s her firm, there’s Lady, and her house that she’s decided not to move from for at least ten years because now she has learned that when she finds something that she likes, she’s allowed to keep it. Joffrey’s not here to take it from her. Petyr’s not here to feed her fear of losing it until it can be used as leverage. And so she’ll keep her house.

Sansa is twenty-eight. Part of her wishes she was older. She has this fantasy that once she turns thirty, she’ll start the process to finally stop caring. She won’t mind that her neighbour Mrs. Dustin keeps asking if she’s engaged yet. She won’t mind that Petyr keeps e-mailing her, telling her how much her cousin Robert misses her and how she should stop being cruel and just come visit the Vale. She won’t mind that no man she ever meets will compare to her ex-fiancé’s bodyguard, and she won’t feel so small and pathetic. And she won’t feel so small and pathetic. She won’t feel so small. 

—

Sandor walks through the ancient gates of Winterfell for the second time in his life. Twenty minutes before his train arrived at the station, he received and e-mail telling him that Governor Reed will unfortunately be unable to make it to their meeting, but he will send the lieutenant governor to greet Mr. Clegane and would it be all right to meet at 4 o’clock instead? _I did not get up at 5 for this bullshit_. Sandor keeps his pace slow. Stranger gets stressed enough about new places without Sandor rushing around. 

The courtyard is neat, not as dramatic and overbearing as that of Storm’s End, but rather more… grave. Men and women in suits walk with purpose across the stone-laid walks, and large, autumn-leafed oak trees line the walk to the main entrance. Stone benches are placed out beneath the trees. It gives him the impression of an old, posh university rather than a regional government seat. Just one fourth of the ancient castle is for government use, the rest is still the Stark ancestral home. Stannis would be jealous. Storm’s end is smaller than Winterfell, and the Baratheons have but one corridor for private use.

There are two young men on the main walk, one standing straight and the other in a wheelchair. They are looking at Sandor, and so he walks up to them.

”Mr. Clegane,” says the one in the wheelchair. ”Welcome to Winterfell. I am Bran Stark, lieutenant governor to Mr. Reed. This is Jojen Reed, my assistant.”

There is no sign of disgust in the young man’s face. _She hasn’t told him_. Sandor can’t even tell if he’s relieved. It certainly makes things easier, though. Bran Stark has his sister’s look, with thick auburn curls and large blue eyes. He was still a child when Sandor was here last, and so he didn’t pay the boy much heed then. He wears a three-piece tweed suit, which Sandor guesses is practical in this weather, but still seems redundantly formal. The young Reed is short, as Reeds are wont to be, and slim. He smiles at Sandor, but with such strangely green eyes, it merely unsettles him.

”Unfortunately, Mr. Clegane,” says the Reed with a voice that is surprisingly soft and bell-like, ”Ms. Stark is not here to greet you. She had some… urgent matter to attend to.”

_Ms. Stark?_ For a moment, Sandor forgets how to breathe. Bran Stark scoffs.

”No need to make excuses, Jojen. My sister is not known to take her duties as Lady of the Residence very seriously.” He turns his blue eyes back to Sandor. ”You’ve met Arya, I believe?”

A wave of relief washes through him. _It’s just the she-wolf_. 

”Aye,” he says, but doesn’t know how to continue.

There is silence.

”All in the past,” says Bran Stark at last. ”Jojen and I are both very intrigued by this program you’re proposing. Would you care to discuss it over lunch?”

”Sure.” Not for the first time, Sandor wonders how he got this job. He was doing well with his job at Workplace Heath and Safety until this new project started. Stannis’ internal recruiting process for the Westerosi Environmental Sustainability Project (WESP for short. Stannis is not known to be good with acronyms) was a strange thing. He took one look at Sandor’s neat paperwork and his punctuality and decided that was enough. Stannis is, after all, when it all comes down to it, a military man. Sandor heard ”raise”, ”travel” and ”yes, fine, you can bring your dog”, and was sold, not considering how much socializing he would have to do trying to get the other regions involved in WESP. And then, well, he was assigned to the North.

He doesn’t know where to look while the Reed carries Bran Stark into the car, which looks suspiciously like a limousine camouflaged to look practical.

”You can leave your dog with Palla,” says the Reed. ”She’ll take care of it.”

Sandor has no intention of leaving Stranger anywhere, and says so. Bran Stark only smiles at the dog when he eagerly jumps in the car.

They pull up outside a coffee house by a square. A brown-haired young woman stands behind the counter, and she casts a wary glance at Stranger before she looks up at Sandor, registers his ruined face, and fails to say what she intended.

”I— uh, dogs are, um…”

”What?” he asks.

She swallows. ”Dogs aren’t allowed inside, sir.”

”He’s a therapy dog.” _And don’t call me sir_.

”So you’re saying you have a, um, certificate, or…?”

”I’m saying the dog’s in therapy. Gets all anxious and shit. Can’t leave him alone.”

The woman casts a helpless glance at Bran Stark, who smiles at her.

”I’m sure it’s fine, Jeyne. I’ll take responsibility if anything happens.”

_I don’t need to be babysat by some boy,_ Sandor thinks, but the years have taught him to be silent.

”She’s in the back corner,” the woman behind the counter tells Bran Stark.

”Thank you, Jeyne.”

Bran Stark guides Sandor between the full tables, the Reed walking behind them. Sandor keeps his head down, not wanting to draw the attention of the lunch crowd. Stranger stays close to his legs, until he stops dead in his tracks, and Sandor looks up to follow the dog’s line of sight. Beneath a table in the corner lies a huge, grey dog, looking almost like a wolf. It doesn’t even raise its head at Stranger.

_So they allow_ this _damn d—_

”Sansa!”

And there she is. With no warning whatsoever, there is the woman who has every reason in the world to despise him, sitting by the table with a laptop in front of her, long, auburn hair falling freely around her shoulders. Her face is thinner, now, but not unhealthy, just… older. In all the images he’s made in his mind, he never imagined she’d be older. Strange, that. There’s a small crease between her dark eyebrows, caused by concentration as she looks down on her screen. As he looks at her, there’s something… Something Sandor never learned the words for. Guilt is part of it, yes, and apprehension. Distantly, he realizes he’s stopped. The Reed clears his throat behind him.

This makes her look up.

”Bran, hi, I—”

Her eyes lock with his. There’s no turning back now. There’s just the two of them, and the weight of their history.

—

Sandor Clegane is not her ex, although perhaps it would be easier if he were. She knows how to handle those, in theory. She’s read books. _”Treat your ex like you would your boss; be friendly, but not personal.”_ The books didn’t say anything about sadistic abusers, cheaters, or manipulative creeps, however, so they were never very helpful to her. But Sandor Clegane is neither of those things. Sandor Clegane is the ex-employee of Sansa’s ex-fiancé. 

He kissed her once. She quite enjoyed it. That is, until it turned out to be a goodbye kiss, and he left her alone in the lion’s den. She’s being unfair. He did offer to take her with him, but she, knowing far too much of punishment and too little of freedom, was too afraid to follow. So he left. Then came the next day, and the revelation that her fiancé had equipped her bedroom with hidden surveillance cameras, and, well. She woke up in the hospital two days later. She’d rather not dwell on that.

But the kiss. During the first couple of years after she left King’s Landing, in her attempt to reclaim what was stolen from her, Sansa kissed quite a few men. To be fair, Sansa did a great deal of things with many different men, and still, none compared to that secret, stolen kiss. It turned into a game, of sorts. A game of _How can I create something that makes me forget about Sandor Clegane_. It was doomed from the start. She realized too late that when she thought back on that night, it was never just the kiss. It was how he offered to set her free, how he, in all those months leading up to it, had always tried to help her, even though she didn’t realize that until after. 

And here he is, now. Standing in the middle of Porther’s Coffee like he thought he’d casually stroll by and set her mind on fire.

The years have somehow made her forget the sheer _vastness_ of him. Certainly, he is ever looming above her in those memories she has chosen to keep close, but. He has no right to fill her vision in such a manner. His hair is still long and black, though perhaps some grey is starting to show around the temples, a testament to their decade apart. Slowly, she takes in the scarred side of his face, re-memorizing the ruin he holds up as a shield against the world. But his eyes. Sansa remembers how they used to frighten her, how even though the fire that burned his face was put out years and years ago, embers of rage and hate still glowed as clearly as anything in those grey eyes. But she looks into them now, and she’s not the one who’s afraid.

”I brought some company. I hope you don’t mind.”

Bran’s voice cuts through her thoughts and bring her back into the now. Does she _mind?_ In a matter of seconds, the locked safe in which she kept Sandor Clegane in her mind has been torn open, blown to pieces, and there is shrapnel lodged in her heart. Does she _mind?_ She can’t find her voice to answer him. Sansa tears her eyes from the man she turned down once and regretted ever since, and looks at her brother, who clears his throat.

”This is Mr. Sandor Clegane, but I…” Bran trails off. ”I take it you’ve met.”

Sansa doesn't speak about her time in King’s Landing with her siblings. They have come to accept it. They’ve all had to accept so many new things about each other, it’s become a habit.

”I…” Sandor Clegane begins to speak, and she is hit with the urgent need to listen to more of his voice. ”I used to work for Joffrey Baratheon.”

Lady sits up by her side, and it’s not until now that Sansa sees the dog beside Sandor. It’s enormous, with sleek black fur, inquisitive ears raised and its eyes fixed on Lady. She wonders when he got a dog. It suits him. Taking care of something.

Sansa closes her laptop and make room on the table. Jojen has already removed a chair to make room for Bran’s wheelchair.

”Please, sit.” She gestures to the chair opposite her, and looks at Sandor Clegane. He still hovers several feel from the table, and casts a glance at Bran, who has placed himself by the short end of the table. Then, he very slowly approaches, pulls out the chair and sit down. His dog sits down on the floor beside him, and Sansa notices how it’s often glancing up at Sandor. _Well-trained_. She appreciates that. Beside her, Lady gives a small whine.

”Can she say hello?”

Sandor Clegane stares at her for a long moment before he seems to comprehend her words.

”Yeah, sure.”

Sansa gives Lady a small pat on the head. ”Go on, girl.”

Lady gets up and carefully approaches the large black dog. For a fraction of a second, Sansa is afraid that they will fight. But nothing more than careful sniffs and uncertain tail-wagging is exchanged, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

”Her name is Lady,” she tells Sandor Clegane.

”He’s Stranger,” he rasps.

It’s so odd and yet so expected that she can’t help but laugh. _Of course he would_. Some movement to her side reminds her that her brother is present. She also realizes she still has no idea what Sandor Clegane is doing here. She was surprised enough before when Bran called and asked her to lunch, an unusual occurrence. She thought it refreshing though, that they were to meet at Porther’s and not at a proper restaurant. Sansa rarely goes to restaurants anymore. 

”You must forgive me, both of you,” Bran says apologetically. ”Had I known you two had met before, I’d have given you some… forewarning. Nevertheless, I believe we have things to discuss.”

_Of course_. Bran never just want to meet. There must be a _reason_. 

”Sansa,” her brother continues, ”Mr. Clegane is here on behalf of the Stormlands Governor Stannis Baratheon, to invite the North to join his program for environmental sustainability. It would mean we’d have to run at least two large-scale green initiatives a year, as well as smaller projects. I immediately thought of your current project.”

She looks at Sandor Clegane, surprised. _A government employee, huh?_ Now that he’s removed his jacket, she can see he’s wearing a white button-down shirt. On him, that’s practically on level with Bran’s redundantly formal wear. Then it hits her. This might mean she can actually sell her idea.

”Oh!” She offers Sandor a smile. ”Sounds very interesting.”

He only furrows his brow at her. ”Project?”

She can feel herself slowly start to relax. This is work. She knows work. She starts telling them about her designs for the White Harbor student residences and is only briefly interrupted by Jojen when he places out their food in front of them in lieu of a waiter. He disappears just as quickly again. Strange little man. Sansa doesn't think she’s ever seen him eat.

Sandor actually appears to pay attention to what she’s saying, and she’s surprised by that. Usually when she starts talking about ecological design, she can see people’s eyes start to glaze over. She often finds herself looking at his dog while she talks to him, and has to force herself to meet his piercing gaze. The dog is much safer. And so the lunch proceeds. Dog. Eyes. Blush. Dog. Afterwards, though, she’ll mainly remember how the fabric of his shirt sleeve stretched over his bicep when he reached down to scratch Stranger behind the ear, and how his eyes drifted, just for a second, to her lips as she spoke. _Gods, why do I still find him so attractive?_ It’s been _years_. She’s older, should be wiser, and _he_ must be closer to forty by now. She wonders if he’s stopped caring. She notices how he casually moves his hair away when it falls into his face, not caring if it lies combed over his burnt side or not. This is new. 

”You should come back to Winterfell with us later,” says Bran over coffee. ”Mr. Clegane has a meeting with Howland this afternoon, and with your project already in the picture I’m sure he’ll be easy to convince.”

”Bran,” Sansa says carefully, ”please tell me you actually want the North in on this program because you care for the environment? Because otherwise I think people will have a thing or two to say about conflict of interest when you bring your sister in on it.”

”Sansa,” says Bran in that tone he uses when he wants her to believe _she’s_ the younger sibling. It’s never done anything but annoy her, but still he keeps trying. ”This project of yours just happens to align perfectly with the program, and you and Beth just happen to be the only architects in the North with this focus.”

In the end, she agrees. Who is she to argue? Outside, Jojen magically appears in Bran’s car just as they exit. Lady is restless by her side.

”I’ll walk,” she says, at the exact same moment as Sandor says the same thing. They look at each other, and try as she might, Sansa can think of nothing to say.

”Of course, you both have your dogs with you. Well, then, have a pleasant walk. I’ll meet you in the lobby in half an hour.” With that, Bran and Jojen drive off.

Autumn-red leaves dance in the air across Snow Square, and she wraps her knit scarf around her neck. Sandor stands looking straight ahead, avoiding her with his eyes. This, too, is new. Sansa lets her gaze wander to his hand holding the leash, and remembers how it felt around the back of her neck when he kissed her. She wonders if he has a girlfriend, and what sort of person she would be. He wears no ring. She wishes she’d worn something pretty today.

”Well,” she says, taking a deep breath. Finally, he looks down at her. ”Shall we?”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is un-edited, I'll go back tomorrow and look through it!

”Shall we?”

Her scarf matches her dog, because of course it does. The scarf goes in greys, knit in some sort of pattern that he doesn’t know the name of but is sure he has seen Seaworth knit at some point. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and her hair flies around her face in the wind as she pulls her jacket closer around her.

She looks like a dream Sandor has dreamt over and over again but has never been able to recall until this moment.

”Yeah.”

They start walking. The street names here tell him nothing, but he can see the great walls of Winterfell tower over the city far ahead. In his peripheral vision he can see her, and her strange dog. Carefully, he looks down at it. _It’s the walk,_ he decides. It keeps an even, steady pace, and where Stranger’s neck is constantly craning to look at their surroundings, the little bird’s grey beast keeps its head low, forming almost a straight line from its head to the tip of its tail. He has a growing suspicion about that animal, and it’s setting him on edge.

The little bird walks with equally measured steps, but with a grace that he remembers and a self-assuredness that he doesn’t. He feels large (not unusual) and clumsy next to her, just a big, ugly bloke with a scarred face that does him no favours.

Suddenly, she stops.

”Shit,” she says, like that’s a word she uses regularly now.

Her language is the last thing he should be surprised about. After those things about her in the papers some years back… He’s not sure what he expected. _Didn’t expect to find her_ here _, that’s for sure_. Sandor knows the lions controlled the evening press back then, of course, knows that they would have done everything in their power to make sure Sansa Stark’s pristine reputation went down the drain, but the _pictures_. She with her long, bare legs, flowing red hair, lipstick half-smeared, leaving the club with some broad-grinned man: not a damsel rescued, but a woman freed by only the fact that she had nothing left to lose. It went on like that, for a while, and sometimes Sandor still looks away by pure habit when a flash of red hair happens to be caught on some front page in the newspaper stands.

”I’m sorry,” she says, and her legs are covered, and her lips are bare. ”I have to stop by my house to pick up some design sketches. Is that all right with you? It’s no detour.”

Though he may see Winterfell tower above the rooftops ahead, there’s no telling how many wrong turns he could take in these ancient, dwindling streets before he finds his way. _Her house_.

”Yeah, sure.”

_Her house_. It turns out to be a three-story stone townhouse with a red door, squeezed in between two larger white houses that look a lot more recent in their style. Not that Sandor knows anything about architecture. He looks at her house and thinks _old_. Thinks: _cultured_. Thinks: _far too large for one person_. 

It’s not until now that he wonders if she’s perhaps not living alone.

He waits outside, just in case.

She doesn’t tell him to do otherwise.

Her street is quiet, the sidewalk lined with autumn-crowned trees. Stranger lies down outside the gate to her front garden and closes his eyes. The plaque on the garden wall says _Stark_. Nothing more. This is comforting.

Her dog that’s been sitting patiently outside the door rises just half a second before the door opens, awaiting the little bird. She comes out carrying a long tube bag over one shoulder, smiles at the dog as she takes the leash again, and side by side they walk to the gate with a strange grace about them. The girl and her elegant beast.

Stranger is snoring.

A light tug at the leash wakes him up. The little bird smiles up at him.

”Thank you for waiting.”

_Proper little bird, still_. ”’S all right. You work from home?”

—

She is surprised that he asks her things. She is even more surprised that he actually listens to her answers. Talking about her firm is easy. She’s read books. _Selling your ideas: a guide for the modern entrepreneur_ and _The self-employment survival guide_ among many others grace her blue bookshelves.

_This is work_. Still, she did pause in front of her hall mirror when she went inside, ran her fingers through her hair, just in case. Beth would tell her she’s being ridiculous. Beth would be right. She keeps her eyes on the street ahead as they walk, him a great shadow beside her. Lady walks close to Sansa, but she does not seem nervous. The warmth against her side helps keep her mind in the now, helps her focus on what Sandor Clegane is saying. With him beside her, it would be far too easy to fall into the familiar paths her mind has formed to those years she’d rather not remember.

The tube with her drawings is a comforting weight. She tells him how it’s far better to have paper sketches rather than digital images these days, that potential clients will want to see something physical to help them envision the idea. Sansa leans on that, knowing that while she will never be a true artist, she has put great work into practicing her lines and perspective, and the drawings look nothing less than professional. No-one can say she didn’t do her work properly. No-one can tell her she’s stupid. 

Before she knows it, the southern gate of Winterfell is before them. It still tugs at her heart to see those walls she had once associated with safety, a bittersweet reminder of the life she almost had. In her peripheral vision she can see his hands readjust their grip on the leash, can see him pull at the hem of his jacket. _He’s nervous_ , she thinks, baffled. She looks up at him as she asks:

”How long will you be staying?”

He looks down at Lady, almost apprehensively as they walk through the gate. ”Two weeks, if Reed decides to join the project.”

”I see.” _That’s plenty of time,_ says a voice in her mind before she can make sense of it. 

A shout from somewhere down the oak-lined walk draws her attention.

”Sansa!”

Nym comes running towards them in long leaps, and behind her comes Arya, fruitlessly trying to call back her pet. For once, Lady loses her composure, and eagerly greets her sister. Stranger is practically trying to hide behind his owner, although he is unsuccessful in this endeavor. Not even a man as large as Sandor Clegane can shield that animal from view.

”Hello, Arya.” Sansa smiles as her sister reaches them. In spite of the weather, Arya is wearing her usual workwear: a white t-shirt shirt beneath a simple blazer. She looks up at Sandor Clegane, and narrows her eyes.

”I was told he was here.” She turns back to Sansa, lowers her voice: ”You okay?” Sansa can’t tell why she would ask, but nods. Arya searches her face for a lie a long moment before she seems satisfied. ”Bran told me about the meeting, so I just wanted to wish you good luck with the pitch. I’ve got to head down to the conservatory, but I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

”Yeah. Don’t forget those Monstera cuttings you promised me!” Sansa has to shout the last part, because Arya and Nym are already hurrying off.

”I haven’t!” her sister shouts over her shoulder.

_She just acted almost as if he wasn’t here_. Sansa looks up at Sandor Clegane who’s staring at the spot where Arya stood only seconds ago. She knows that he’s crossed paths with Arya in the past, but that’s the full extent of her knowledge on the matter. Arya has not willingly talked about it, and whenever Sansa tried to ask, she’d just give her an odd look and change the subject. _”Why would you care so much about that shithead?”_ she asked her once, and Sansa had to say that she didn’t, and that was that. 

”I’m sorry, she’s…”

”Don’t have to apologize to me. She owes me no kindness.”

_Odd way to phrase it_. ”You did not part on good terms?” When he gives her a confused look, she explains: ”She hasn’t told me much. Only that you met.”

He shrugs. ”She wanted to kill me.”

”She wanted to kill many people, back then. I’d not take it personally.” _You did, too, don’t you see? All that rage and now here you are, both of you_. Arya began keeping to the conservatory shortly after she came back to Winterfell, according to Bran. Where Sansa has her firm, and, she suspects, Sandor Clegane has Stranger, Arya has salvaged what was still alive in there, and tends to the new frail seedlings with the help of that gardener she hired, although somehow he seems even less qualified than she does to restore the conservatory. The estate is still sparsely staffed. With Rickon staying on campus in White Harbor, and Sansa living in her townhouse, there isn’t really much that needs to be done that Arya and Bran can’t see to themselves. And there’s Jojen, of course. And that ”gardener”. And so life in Winterfell goes on: some halls are still empty, and some doors they have not yet dared to open. Arya keeps the conservatory key in her pocket. Bran watches from his office window as Summer runs through the godswood, and Sansa wishes she could feel at home again. Sometimes, they even host parties in the western gallery. And when Rickon comes home, they eat together in the Great Chamber outside their parents’ old bedroom. Almost like they used to do.

—

Bran Stark awaits them in the lobby, the Reed standing silently behind him. The old stone walls are painted white in the large room, but the ceiling is the original carved dark wood, the floor smooth grey schist. Beside Stark sits another of those great beasts, this one with a more silvery coat than the she-wolf’s— Nym, was it?— and with a calmer air about it. 

”This is Summer,” says Bran Stark. ”Yours is called Stranger, yes?”

”Yeah.”

Very gently, Stranger and Summer make their acquaintance.

”I thought perhaps you’d like a tour of the place. There’s still a while before your meeting with Governor Reed.”

Beside Sandor, the little bird and Lady begins to turn away.

”Sansa? You’ll not be joining us?”

She smiles at her brother. ”I thought I’d pay a visit to the godswood. It’s been a while.” With that, she’s gone.

A strange sense of loss hits him when, for the first time since he found her again, she isn’t there anymore. Out of all the ways he imagined them meeting again, _this_ never crossed his mind. _She didn’t yell at me, for one_. No, instead she’s been… not entirely comfortable, perhaps, but seemingly enjoying his company. She talked with him and seemed interested in his work and Stranger. But then, he’s heard her chirp polite pleasantries to guests minutes after being slapped by Joffrey behind a closed door, so perhaps he shouldn’t get his hopes up. It did not elude him how she carefully avoided any personal topics, and not once did she mention their past history. Part of him is relieved. Another, more insistent part of him knows that the world will not let him go unpunished for his crimes forever, and it’s just a matter of time before it’s all out in the open.

Bran Stark shows him around the office areas and the courtyards, tells him of Winterfell’s long, bloody history and of the different restoration projects through the years. Stranger and Summer walk silently along on the tour.

In the end, Sandor has to ask.

”Don’t people here mind that there are animals in their workplace? No-one’s even glanced at Stranger.”

”Dogs have always been allowed here. Everyone’s used to them by now.” The young man nods towards Summer, who is at height with him in the wheelchair.

”Yeah, well,” and Sandor wishes he could keep his mouth shut, ”that’s not a dog, though.”

Bran Stark stills for just a second before he looks up at Sandor with a benign smile.

”Many of our employees here bring their dogs to work. And there’s always Palla, who’s in charge of the kennel, if one needs someone to look after their friend for a while.”

It’s as much of a confirmation as he could have asked for. As if on cue, Summer gives a low whine, and they continue their tour.

—

The godswood is quiet. It always is. Sansa sits beneath the great heart tree, staring into the deep waters of the pools, thinking _why did you send him here?_ Why, after all these years, just as she has managed to create some semblance of a normal life for herself, has this man been thrown straight into her path again?

The woods answer her with silence, as always. But it is the sort of silence in which her thoughts can resonate clearly, in which she can access her senses with barely any barriers. Three years ago, after Sansa graduated from Oldtown University and came back to the North for the first time in years, this was the first place she went to. Before entering the Great Keep, even before visiting her parents’ grave in the crypts, she walked through the godswood and laid her cheek against the white trunk of the heart tree. Some warmth reached her from within the tree, and that was her first welcome home. The second came when Bran and Arya found her there, sobbing uncontrollably, her luggage forgotten on the ground behind her. _”You’re home”,_ they’d told her, and _”It’s all right now”_. But it wasn’t. Still isn’t. Sometimes, Sansa wakes in the middle of the night, feeling as if her chest is being torn open from the inside. For days after, she’ll find herself pulling at her shirt to cover the gaping wound she imagines is there. 

It’s been difficult to trust sleep.

Funny thing is, her real, physical scars barely bother her at all. She knows the ones on her legs are still visible when she wears short skirts. It was brought to her attention back in Oldtown, when a picture of her and Harry was emblazoned on the front of an evening paper, her skirt slightly hiked up from movement, and there were thin, silvery stripes across the back of her thighs. Gossip magazines had a field day with that one. _Let them look,_ she’d thought. _Let them know what I’ve endured and survived. They can’t touch me_. In hindsight, that was a naïve notion. Now, she barely gives the scars any thought. Arya asked her about the one on the side of her face once, a thin line stretching from her cheekbone down to her jaw. It’s only visible when she laughs, or if you look real close. She told Arya the truth, that she hit her head on the corner of a metal cabinet. She did not tell her she was pushed.

Joffrey actually seemed to regret that, if only for the scar it caused.

She shakes her head. It doesn’t matter anymore. A glance at her phone tells her it’s time to head back. The meeting will have started, and it’s only a matter of time until they’ll want her presentation. With a deep breath, she does her best to collect herself, and heads back to the keep.

Howland Reed greets her warmly outside Meeting Room Torrhen. She’s never gotten around to thinking of him as Governor, not even after three years. Of course, if Bran or Arya take over that title one day, whichever one of them makes up their mind first, she won’t ever address them formally unless she has to.

”Sansa, dear,” says Howland, ”I was pleasantly surprised when Bran told me you would be joining us. So you changed your mind after all?”

”Oh, no, Mr. Reed. I’m here as an architect.”

He raises his eyebrows. Even though Sansa studied the arts, there was a certain expectation when she returned home. An expectation that she would go into politics, like her father and siblings, like her grandmother, and so many Starks before them. She quickly made sure everyone got rid of that notion.

Mr. Reed opens the door to let her in. The first person she lays eyes on inside is Sandor Clegane. He sits by the end of the table, a laptop in front of him, looking professional in a manner she’s never seen him before. Professional bodyguard, yes. Professionally intimidating, yes. But this man in a white button-down shirt, well-fitted and neat, with his long black hair casually swept out of his face is completely new to her. Whatever’s on his screen seems to distract him enough from the present to smooth out his features, and for a moment, the horror of his childhood is barely visible on his face. And then he looks up at her.

Perhaps too quickly, Sansa tears her gaze from him to take in the rest of the room. Bran and Jojen are present, as is that odd Mr. Forel from HR. Next to him sits two women Sansa does not know, and finally Shyra, who’s just started her internship with Mr. Forel, according to Bran. Sansa forces herself to smile as her brother introduces her.

—

”—My sister, Sansa Stark, is the founder and, together with Beth Cassel, co-owner of the architecture firm WOLF. WOLF is unique in the North in that they have a specific focus on sustainability and green architecture…”

The little bird looks about as comfortable as he feels at this meeting. It’s subtle, but it’s there; in the tense line of her jaw, in her tight grip on the strap of her bag. However, as she begins to present her project, something settles on her shoulders and the stiffness in her back is replaced by a self-assured straightness, and it’s odd to see her like this. _You don’t know her anymore,_ he reminds himself. _Stop thinking you do_. He watches her lay out her concept drawings, listens to her carefully map out her plans, of their benefits and difficulties. This is not the young girl who believed Joffrey _(believed me)_ when he called her stupid. But perhaps, he hopes, this is still the woman who showed him pity when she owed him none, who heard him even through the walls he’d built around himself. Perhaps, he hopes, this woman can forgive what he did to her.

”Mr. Clegane?”

Abruptly, he is pulled into the present, and finds her blue eyes looking at him. Along with everyone else in the room.

”Yes?”

”I asked if you believe the project will fulfill the WESP criteria?”

She looks almost anxious, some of that confidence slipping, and of course it’s his fault.

”I, uh.” He casts a glance down at the sketches. ”I’d have to run it by the management, but yeah, I think so.”

Governor Reed seems rather more easily convinced than Sandor expected. Perhaps it helps that there are two Starks seemingly in favour of the North joining WESP. Sandor knows of the late Ned’s friendship with this Reed. It was all over the papers when Reed became the new Northern Governor after Bolton. When the meeting comes to an end, Sandor knows he will be staying the full two weeks in Winterfell. Rooms have been prepared for him in the Guest House, spacious enough that Stranger doesn’t spend his time whining by the door. The windows overlook the southern courtyard and its oak trees. 

The little bird disappeared as soon as the meeting was over. He never even had a chance to talk to her, and he knows he will have to. If he is to stay for two weeks, and her project will be part of his, he will have to talk to her.

—

”He is _staying?”_

”Only for two weeks.” Bran puts down his fork. ”Is there a problem, Arya?”

Arya turns her gaze to Sansa. ”I don’t know. Is there?”

”I, uh…” Sansa looks from her sister to her brother. ”Why are you asking me?”

Arya takes a deep breath as she pushes food around her plate. Their dinner together has been fairly quiet up until now, unusually so. All three of them have been too preoccupied with their own thoughts to keep a decent conversation. Lady, Nymeria and Summer all lie in front of the fireplace, having tired themselves out playing with Palla earlier.

”Sansa.” Arya looks at her intently, now. ”Do you feel… safe? Working with him?”

”What is this about?”

”Are you worried because Mr. Clegane worked for Joffrey Baratheon? That was almost a decade ago.” Bran’s voice is gentle, but he looks concerned as his gaze drifts from Arya to Sansa.

”That’s not— It’s nothing. As long as you’re fine with it, Sansa.”

”Why wouldn’t I be?” Something about how troubled her sister looks is setting Sansa on edge.

Arya takes a deep breath. ”I just thought maybe something happened between you two. Something bad.”

”Arya—”

”No, I’m sorry. It’s just something he said to me when I met him years ago that’s been bothering me, but you never talked about it, and he was drunk, and so I assumed it was nothing.”

”Something did happen.”

Both Arya and Bran go completely still, staring at Sansa. They would be surprised. Sansa has barely mentioned anything about their years apart to her siblings, feeling as if she brought those terrible memories into Winterfell they would spoil what little feeling of home it still holds for her. But now _he_ is here. There is no running anywhere. And so she tells them.

It takes a long time. Hours, maybe. At some point she cries. Bran and Arya hold themselves together — for her sake, no doubt — but there are tears streaming down Bran’s cheeks by the time she is done. 

She hasn’t told them half of it.

”So… He kissed you? Nothing more?” Arya still doesn’t look convinced. What could he possibly have told her all those years ago to make her so apprehensive?

”I think the kiss is less important in this than the fact that he offered to take me away from Joffrey.”

”Of course.” She doesn’t miss the sharp glance Bran sends Arya. Suddenly, the full weight of this day lands on her shoulders, and she knows it’s time to go home. Nothing more can be done. She’s sold her student residence designs, she’s met the man she’s dreaded and longed for for almost a decade, and she’s told her siblings far more of her past than she’d ever planned to. 

Sansa takes the long way home, strolling slowly with Lady through the dwindling streets of Winter Town. The sun sets early in autumn this far north, and darkness falls thick around the edges of the streetlights. As she takes a turn and arrives at her street, she sees a shape that is both familiar and not walk down it.

”S— Mr. Clegane?”

She can feel her heart hammering in her chest as the figure turns, slowly, in contrast to the huge black dog that looked up as soon as she spoke.

”Little bird,” comes that rasp of a voice.

_There_ it is. That strange name he used to call her. She thought it was meant as an insult, at first, but as insults and belittlement became part of her every-day life, she learned to tell the difference.

”I was just out walking Stranger.”

She is closer now, and can see him more clearly in the streetlight. He wears a grey hoodie under his jacket, but no gloves or hat, and his nose and good ear are red from the cold. The burnt side of his face looks a bit paler than usual, but that might just be the light.

”Here?” She doesn’t mean to sound like she’s accusing him of something, but it _is_ odd.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think he looks embarrassed.

”It’s, well,” he casts a glance up the street, ”These are the only streets I can find my way back from.”

_Fair enough_. ”You’re not dressed for the North.” She almost knows where her mind is going with this, but there’s no stopping it now.

He shrugs. ”I’d forgotten how damn cold it gets here.”

She’s outside her gate now, and he’s just a couple of meters down the street. ”You do look cold. Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea?”

He hesitates. Of course he does. He probably does have a girlfriend back home. Someone who didn’t turn him down years ago and never tried to contact him again. Someone who’s actually allowed to run her fingers through that long, black hair, someone who…

”Stranger, he wouldn’t… bother anyone?”

She could laugh from the relief. ”I live alone.” She smiles. Does his shoulders relax just the tiniest bit? ”Are you coming or not? It’s cold out here.”

It feels like an eternity before he answers.

”Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

He walks into her house slowly, casting glances around to make sure he doesn’t brush against anything expensive on his way. It seems like the sort of house he shouldn’t be allowed in. Stranger waltzes in as though he owned the place, though, which is odd; the great black dog is usually apprehensive in new environments. She closes the door behind him.

Her hallway is long, and the high ceiling gives it the impression of being narrow. An L-shaped staircase lines the far corner, leading up to a wood-railed landing on the second floor that he can only catch a glimpse of. A tall mirror with a colorful carved frame to his left breaks off the white-stone-wood look of the room.

Sandor is still cold, but he removes his coat and hangs it carefully on the rack. She shows him through a doorway and into her kitchen, which is larger than any kitchen could pragmatically justify itself to be. Her grey beast is let loose, and lies down beneath he table. She sets down a paper bag on the rustic wooden table in the middle of the room, green leaves peeking out over the edge.

”Please, sit.”

He does. She fills a kettle and goes to rummage through a pale green cabinet. She wears a dress, he notices, blue velvet hugging her figure and falling in soft folds to her knees.

”Do you like pentoshi rooibos? Or would you prefer black?”

”No, that sounds good,” says Sandor, who only ever buys those yellow cartons of nondescript black teabags that taste like death itself if you leave them in a second too long. He hopes that pentoshi — _What was it? Rebus?_ — tea is good. But, looking around her kitchen, he doubts she has bad taste in anything. 

”You have a pretty house,” he says, and immediately wants to sink through the floor. _Out of every fucking adjective_ …

But she turns, and _beams_ , and he decides that perhaps it was the right thing to say after all.

”Oh, isn’t it?” She is more animated now than he’s ever seen her before. ”I found it three years ago and I just _knew_ it was mine.” 

Sandor thinks of his own flat back in Durran’s Point. It’s sparsely furnished, and he rents it because it’s close to work and it has a balcony where he can smoke. _Perhaps that’s the difference between people like me and old-moneyed folks._

”It was sold as a classical-style house, but I’m fairly certain it’s older than that,” she continues, happily chatting away as she fishes out two black ceramic mugs from another cabinet. ”It clearly has the layout of Northern romanticism, but some _imbecile_ renovated it during the late Targaryen era. See the beamed ceiling?” She points up, and Sandor obediently follows with his gaze. ”I had to extract it from under plaster coffering. _Plaster!_ And the windows toward the street are all switched out to Southern styles. I had the staircase restored, though, and I found the original carved capitals for the pillars tossed away in the attic.”

Sandor understands approximately a third of what she’s saying, but he’s happy to listen to her talk. The frightened girl he knew in King’s Landing all those years ago would have never had the confidence to speak so much about her own interests. _Or at all,_ he thinks bitterly. Even when that blond shit was nowhere near she’d stop herself and apologize. He hated that. Out of all the people he knew in the capital she was the only one who seemed to have a genuine interest in things not concerning money or power. They’d be at a museum, and she would recognize a fresco from an early Andal ruin and excitedly start telling him how it had been recovered before silencing herself. That spark in her eyes that barely had time to light up in those days is now fully aglow as she talks about her house and its history, and Sandor is not one to try and take that from her.

—

Sansa knows she is babbling. But there is a man at her kitchen table that she’s been dreaming of for ten years and her hands are shaking as she pours the tea and her phone is vibrating again on the counter and her dress feels very tight around her chest suddenly and _why did she invite him in?_

_You know why, silly girl_.

She places his cup in front of him and hurries over to her phone, mumbling an apology as she does so. It’s Beth, of course, texting her for the ninth time this evening.

_Sansa??? I s2g if you don’t answer I’m calling your sister. TELL ME ABOUT THE JOB SANSA_

Sansa sighs, and types a quick reply:

_Sorry! Family dinner. Breakfast @ the Wall tomorrow? I’ll tell you everything_.

”Something the matter?” Sandor Clegane’s voice makes her turn around and offer him a small smile. He looks odd, sitting in her kitchen, in his grey hoodie and his long hair swept back, a giant in her carefully planned home, sitting in one of the chairs she bought just in case her siblings would come visit all at once (they haven’t). And yet… He fits right in. _Yes,_ she thinks, _right where you belong_.

”It’s just my partner at the firm. Beth. I guess you’ll meet her pretty soon.”

He nods silently, and she fills an extra bowl of water for his dog. _Stranger,_ she remembers. Stranger licks her hand as she puts the water down in front of him.

”Sweet boy,” she smiles, and gives him a quick scratch behind the ears.

”Yeah,” comes Sandor Clegane’s rough voice, ”for once.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to make of that, so she sits down opposite him and sips her tea. He follows her example, almost uncertainly, and a small warmth spreads in her chest for reasons beyond her.

”So. How’d you end up at Storm’s End?”

”There was an employment program for veterans, and, well, I qualified.”

Her hands still around her cup. She never once considered that his options would have been more limited than hers. Here she’s been fretting about buying a house because she doesn’t want to live in her family’s _literal castle_ , and he’s… _We escaped the same cage, me back into money and him into unemployment_. In King’s Landing he always seemed so sure of himself, even through his rage, that she never imagined he could ever not be okay. _Silly girl, indeed_. 

”And… Are you happy there?” _Or would you rather move somewhere else? North, perhaps?_

He takes a sip from his cup, looks down at the table. Follows the fibers with his fingertip.

”It’s fine, I suppose. Better than the capital.” He keeps tracing the table surface, and she is momentarily distracted by the veins on the back of his hand. ”And you? Here?”

”I’m…” Sansa trails off, and that surprises her. ”I’m home,” she manages at last, her throat feeling oddly tight.

”Yeah.” His eyes meet hers with a softness that she is not prepared for. ”You got home, in the end.”

It’s his eyes that break her, she decides. Any resolve she had to remain impersonal and not mention their past is gone as his eyes linger on hers just a moment too long, flicker to her lips, and then back to the table. The burnt side of his mouth twitches, and it’s odd that she’’s forgotten how it does that. She takes a deep breath.

”I never… Thanked you, did I? For— You offered— ”

”I’m— ” He cuts her off, and she is too surprised to react. ”I can’t— There’s no taking back what I did, little bird. But I’m sorry, all the same.”

_Little bird_. Her heart soars at the words, familiar and long lost until just now, and before, outside her house. And then the confusion.

”Sorry? You offered to _help_ me.”

He looks at her, incredulous now, his hand frozen in place on the table.

”I _took advantage_ of you. You were – _so_ young, and lost, and alone, and I, like a— Like some fucking— ”

”I was young, yes,” she says, some anger in her voice that she doesn’t know where it’s from. ”But I wasn’t helpless. Not with you.”

He searches her face for a lie a long moment, and it’s not her that looks helpless now. Part of Sansa still can’t believe he’s here, and they’re actually having this conversation in her kitchen.

”But… All those…” He looks lost, searching for words. ”I used to frighten you. On purpose.”

There is an odd sense of pride as she takes in his words. _He’s in nobody’s cage now, not even his own_. On an impulse, she reaches out to him across the table, and takes his hand in hers.

—

Sandor’s heart seems to stop as her hand clasps his. He looks down. It’s slender, paler than his, and so, so soft. Gathering what courage he has, he slowly raises his gaze to meet hers.

She is leaned forward over the table, her hair falling down from her shoulders and onto its surface.

”You, like me, were collateral,” she says, and he is hit with the strange urge to weep. ”That hell was not of our design.”

A weight Sandor has carried for so long that it seemed part of him lifts from his chest. _This is the forgiveness I wanted, isn’t it?_ But habit is a strange thing, and so he still reaches for that weight as it leaves him:

”But— I _took advant—”_

”I kissed you back,” she says with an insistency that almost causes him to flinch. ”Don’t presume to take my choices from me.”

_Too kind by far, still,_ he thinks, and lets his focus wander to where her hand holds his. It’s warm against his skin, and he suddenly thinks that perhaps he should have tried that hand creme he found in his room earlier, in the ”Welcome to Winterfell!” basket that some poor intern no doubt had to put together for him. His thoughts go from her hand to the kiss all those years ago, an impulse he had pushed down for too long to keep it up anymore, and remembers; remembers her arms snaking around him, her fingers in his hair, her _lips,_ softer even than he’d imagined—

It’s so easy, so natural, to give her hand a small squeeze. She doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the gentlest of smiles spreads from her eyes to her lips, and as it does so, he notices something. From her cheekbone down to her jaw: a thin, silvery line making itself known as she smiles. Perhaps it’s the warmth from her hand, perhaps it’s her smile. Either way, Sandor is so lost in the moment that he leans forward. Reaches out with his other hand, touches the scar with his best kind of gentle, remembering her touching his bad side with a tender hand, once.

She stills, seems to freeze in place, and he does the same. Feels shame start to build up in his chest, and then— a rosiness spreads across her cheeks. He swallows.

”That’s new,” he says, lowering his hand but nodding towards the scar. The rest goes unspoken, but they both know it’s there: _I don’t remember him ever going for your face_.

Her eyes widen, and her hand – not the one holding his, thank the gods – goes up to her cheek. 

”Oh. That was…” She swallows. ”After. After you left, I mean.”

_I should have stayed. I should have brought her with me_. _Fuck_. He has always known, of course, what he left her in, and he’s regretted it. What-if’s and might-have-been’s had lulled him into restless sleeps for the first weeks after he left King’s Landing.

”I’m…”

”Not to blame,” she says, and smiles again, and that makes his heart heavy with an old, familiar grief. ”I missed you, you know. In King’s Landing, in Oldtown… Even here.”

_Even here_. She missed him? Sandor has just wrapped his mind around the fact that she doesn’t hate him for what he did, that she _blushed_ as he touched her cheek, and now _this_. He understands, rationally, why she would miss his presence in King’s Landing. He was the only one of those fuckers that wouldn’t hurt her, he did what he could to deescalate Joffrey’s tantrums. Or, at the very least, divert his attention away from her. She’d lost what little protection she had (and that thought stil fills him with shame, whatever she says), but after that, after she’d gotten out… _Even here, she said, even here, she’s home and she’s missed me_. He ought to say something. He knows this. But what can he possibly say? _I’ve regretted leaving you for ten years. I looked for your name in the Oldtown Uni graduate announcements. I’ve dreamt of your mouth around my cock. If I could, I would soften every edge of the world, just to keep you from harm_.

Sandor realizes that he’s been staring at her like a fool for far too long. Her head is slightly tilted, and the smile is gone. _Fuck_.

”I…” Sandor begins, but his throat feels too tight, and his hesitation only makes her face fall even more.

”Oh!” She pulls her hand from his and looks up at a clock on the wall. ”Look at the time! Well, I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow, and I’m sure you’ve had a long day. Should I call down a car from Winterfell for you?” She is talking too fast, is twisting a lock of hair between her fingers. 

”No, It’s fine. I’ll walk.”

Numbly, he rises from his chair. His hand feels cold. _Had to go and ruin it all over again, didn’t I?_ He grabs Stranger’s leash and heads towards the hall with a chorus of _fix this fix this fix this fix this_ in his mind. She follows him to the door, polite as ever.

”Thanks for the” – _pentoshi what? Fuck –_ ”tea,” he says. It _was_ good tea. Sweet and smooth. 

”You sure you won’t freeze to death?” She seems to have recovered, is collected and calm once more. _Distant,_ he thinks, and there is regret.

”I’ll be fine,” he says. Hesitates with his hand on the handle. Turns back to her. ”Look, little bird,” and she looks up at that, ”I’m shit at this, but I missed you too.”

He sees her eyes widen before he quickly nods, and steps out into the cold.

—

The next morning, Sansa sits at the Wall with Beth, her third cup of tea steaming beside her. She closes her laptop and puts the work aside.

”Shit. Sansa. This is good!” Beth is smiling. Her dark blonde curls are pinned up, haloing around her head. ”So. This… _Sandor Clegane_. Is it…?”

”The man from King’s Landing I told you about once when I was drunk and specifically asked you never to mention again? Yes.”

”Have you spoken to him yet?” Beth casually ignores Sansa’s remark. 

”A little,” she admits. ”I think… I might still…” Sansa curses her affinity for blushing as she feels heat spread from her cheeks.

”Yeah, no shit.”

_”Beth!”_

”Have you told Bran? I mean, we’ll all be working together and you know how he is. He’s going to notice.”

”Frankly, I’m more worried about Arya. She hates him, so that’s fun.” Sansa stirs her tea slowly and rests her head in her hand. It’s a quiet morning at the Wall. The café-bar-and-gallery is located in a collection of old warehouses, built together to form one long building. It is, according to Arya, ”the one cool place in Winter Town.” This part is reached by climbing a spiral staircase up onto a landing halfway up the large, open space. Beth and Sansa sit just by the metal railing, overlooking the gallery below. Atelier spaces are at the other end of the landing, and a group of the artists who rent them have appropriated the space below the staircase to grow various plants and greens. By the three-meter tall windows it’s as close to a greenhouse you can get without actually having one. It’s a homey, welcoming place, and coolness or no, Sansa likes it.

”Sansa. Sweetie.” Beth puts her cup down, giving Sansa her full attention. ”Arya joined a death cult. The gods only know what your brother was up to, but I don’t think either of them are going to judge you.”

Sansa is already uncomfortable with this topic. Beth may see right though her, but she would prefer to keep her own vision clouded for just a little while more. Beth, bless her, notices Sansa’s discomfort, purses her red lips, and changes the subject.

”Have you heard from your cousin lately? The hot one, not the spoiled one.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. ”Jon is still with Val, Beth. Still up north, still works with the Freefolk Parliament.”

”Ah, well. A girl can dream. One day he’ll tire of politics and come back here.”

”Sure he will.”

They both know it’s not true. Jon started at Integration, then left to be a Winterfell ambassador at the Freefolk Thing two years ago. Howland Reed signed to recognize it as an institute of cultural autonomy only five years ago, one of his first acts as governor. Bolton had actively worked to disband it. Sansa knows her history. These things never go smoothly, especially as the North is patching itself together after years of mismanagement, and it is vital that they keep relations amicable between Winterfell and Hardhome.

”You’re thinking about politics again, aren’t you?” Beth has one eyebrow raised.

”Shut up.”

”Honestly, you’re a great architect and I love our firm, but the Department of Energy and Environments is right there, waiting to be revived.”

Sansa sighs, and stretches her arms out behind her back.

”Maybe when I’m fifty. For now, let’s get to Winterfell.”

—

The morning mist lingers in the air today. It floats along the ground and dances away from Sandor’s feet as he walks across Winterfell’s graveyard outside a squat, low tower. His room is in the guest corridor of the Governor’s residence. It’s a pleasant enough room, spacious, with a view of the Godswood. It’s another chilly day, but he finds it oddly refreshing this morning. At the far end of the graveyard he finds it; a couple of low stone benches along a small pond, with a candle rack and an enamel plaque that says _Remembrance Garden_. Three lights flicker in the rack, even at this early hour.

Sandor doesn’t have a candle. He lights a cigarette, and takes a long drag. Taps down the ash onto the earth. _There you go, sis_. The time when he used to share a cigarette with her behind the garden wall are long gone, almost as lost to his mind now as the day of her funeral. But it’s a nice ritual to have, and it makes him feel normal. People lose family members all the time. They mourn. They remember.

Sandor can do that, too.

”It seems Howland got here before me, today.”

So deep in thought is Sandor that he didn’t hear anyone approach from behind. Now, he quickly turns, uncomfortably aware that it’s his burnt side that’s closest to the newcomer.

Bran Stark smiles at him. 

”Good morning, Mr. Clegane. I hope you found your accommodations to be agreeable to you.”

Sandor only nods, annoyed to be interrupted. Bran Stark rolls past his bench and up to the candle rack. He produces three candles, and lights them one by one with a match.

”I try to come here once a week, at least. Arya goes to the Godswood, but I like the, what to say, _ambience,”_ he says with another smile. ”It was nearly paved over, did you know that? Bolton wanted a new parking lot, and the graveyard isn’t in use anymore. Thankfully we still had a culture departement that could protest, even then.”

Sandor doesn’t know what to say to that. He nods again, and takes another drag of his cigarette.

”Sansa and Beth are coming here today, to see that their project fills Baratheon’s criteria.” Bran Stark peers at him oddly as he says this, and Sandor pretends that he doesn’t know why. ”Pardon me for saying, but you look quite cold, Mr. Clegane. I suppose the weather is rather more chilly here than you’d be used to.”

”Wasn’t prepared for the North,” Sandor says. ”Don’t know if I’ll ever be,” he adds, thinking of last night, not for the first time today.

”Oh, don’t say that,” says Bran Stark. ”I have a feeling you’ll come to like it here.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is shorter than usual!  
> Man, I'd forgotten what a delight this story is to write. I hope you liked this update (better late than never etc.) and thank you for reading!


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